Chris Lawrence, West Kirby, England

Chris Lawrence born in 1964, essentially he is a writer of poetry but also writes plays, novels and screenplays. With his poetry he has been published in numerous magazines, anthologies and newspapers internationally and through his blog has gained a loyal following. His first piece was published in 2009 with a push from his wife and muse Karen.WWW: http://velvetmedia.wordpress.com

Deep, in the sky of beingInteracting and balancing between natural and supranatural, and among all, touching the feeling of its own reflections within the soul, Chris Lawrence is avangarde. Besides having in mind that it took him a lot of years to decide when and how to publish his first "piece" (quoting his word) in front of us is the poet with the message. Not just of his own. Whose? I will not give you an answer because it that case it would be obnoxious from my side. Why? I will just say: Please, get deep, in the sky of being. Of Chris Lawrence. The answer is there. Within his poetry.

Editor's word

Sabahudin Hadžialić11.6.2013.

Broken sweet and low breathing long taken breaths ocean pump heart has no tired dismay, brittle sand empties breaking the vast silence congealed brightness brought, tenderness and ambivalence white day out of mind nothing seemed apparent, thought flaps as tattered curtains taking no form, bound by scent of incense raising valiant blood fires, almost holy, freedom is an enduring harvest that comes with water and prayers, starlit beneath moaning sea keep the disturbing flowers to the edges of the room, eastern carpets become thin weave and weft, show the dazed feet can be placed assured, no fear, out of machines comes the resonance we do not want, need time to look back as the glass now empty, by the light of a tremulous candle all the unwanted scurries as the shuffle of feet leaves their exhaustion clinging to the air, they could of been kings of the worldSubtraction from in the obstinate realm of flightless thought, a man may lay down finding all muscles non compliant, he had a chance that possibility to extract a thought chick from the nest, without down stark uninteresting pallid pink nothing with voracious appetite, cast away all limits remain, lust, love and desire three traps set for him all ensnaring, have caught him escape an alternative only accomplished with thought, yet he could not think, each entice her whisper, a touch upon bare flesh, the merest smile, beguiled, her Medusa words turn flesh to stone, marble for her own touch contoured to her own wanting it was her savor, not his a phallic model of molecular degeneration, reduced to base instincts and constructs, he was for her and her aloneAirborne Mechanics

i took her to the roof to find the sky that she left behind last year, unable to identify position of the sun or what color the clouds where, i had to let go of her hand, so that she could reach then float onto a backdrop of blue, feel and process the sky, acknowledge it was all wrong and that the moment we had, had then was different, my own hand could not find her ankle to withdraw her, bring her down, she raised higher and i called, but those soft shelled ears included my voice with the natural sounds, and i became absorbed, where was she going, i was on the edge teetering brink of infinite moments, would i fall or find flight with her, too afraid to discover held back i watched the darkening sky, a sun paling to moon wait till tomorrow

Borders With Snow

a storm brought cold, an everlasting damp to those corners you hide in for warmth only to find them not so secure, they had climbed for an hour back to the checkpoint, road quiet having to remain and be vigilant, headlights pushed the edges of dark, the two soldiers moved forward, bolts in position rifles held ready, far from barracks and city, they could be trapped by the snow that now fell, old station wagon slowed, pointing rifles elderly man placed arm across the chest of his wife, simple protection, one guard shook his head nodding to the rear, inside bundles of cloth husks of corn simple trade, snow began to increase thickening on everything it fell they could make it difficult for them to prolong a stress and threat but no, cold quickly made them compassionate and as the pick up left, felt as though they had done rightShifting In a Moment

rusty nails kept in a ziploc bag, revived from outhouse torn down in summer, nails that seem firm enough for purpose could still be hammered into soft tissue wood, securing pieces in their jigsaw frame till a new shape is created, must be close to a hundred of them, would that be enough, for blueprint staining your conscious, ready to evolve into a rendered piece of structuresaxophone of the blissful

dauntless candles, burn beneath a spire, beyond hallowed timber frame wind picks up pieces of fall. cascading them about, shaking gusted fists at resolute bough’s, earth reaches to the garden of the sea as whispering I feel tremors uncoil from within something inside knows, that I too will be absorbed beneath the verdant greenfield and crimson sky she died, I wept and tore myself apart, trying not to lose the pieces of she to the field and crimson sky…I Mammalia linnaeus said i was of the breast, mammal, others said homunculus being of man, i am structure labels and description hominid not pongid, erect bipedal classified and arranged my own name of inconsequence i am myself living with fossil ancestors, last of a kind, pan troglodytes and pan paniscus my shadow shape and form, pan feeder and fertility of these as much as well not so much as a deity but origin being vessel of twenty three chromosomes and passion to extend the lineage, being morphologically comparable to those of saggital crest, linnaeus believed in sex and the line as with his botanica sexual with bridal beds as perfumed and scented as passion be now a dancing self deity procreation and self extension, finding the mate passion raw astounding the stars grunts of elemental exhaustion a galaxy of cellular construction swirl compete and fertilize, i am mammal feeder of the breast natures nurturer and wonder of flesh

Ignition

a train sounded in the sunrise as wheat fields folded like linen under the breeze, a place close to earth, to nature, he had discovered a man's hungers, and she a woman's desires, flesh tones mingled entwined waking, from exhausted slumber, air caressed skin prickled in reaction, a kiss to wake and finish as last hold lingered, once dressed hand in hand, knowledge brought them closer.Urbem Fuga flecked metallic spittle sheen parapet nudge huddle and watch, rain sends it's showers, as flying down eager beak finds burger morsel, meat chewed, bun dissolving already trodden on, wrapper wind-borne into gutter edge, calling to others in noisy clamor, scatter and land, snatching quick, eyes unblinking, intense gaze deeper than human, nothing evades, human debris, human construction home and territory, under foot whir of wings flap and scatter, in a beaters retreat, rising above puddled pavements and stores blowing out heat, perched wherever pink scaled feet grab, wait again cooing pushing each other, as if competition is needed, in this land of plenty, still one eye will watch, a wild remnant, for that diamond form in the sky of a predator All Seeing

the city saw you first through unblinking windows stained by the breath of factories settled aside the river, each reflective blankness caught you as you moved so purposefully, hair lain straight down your back, over that beige coat you said you would never wear, insolent sidewalks echoed the clatter of heels, forming a rhythm for your hips to sway, I was not lost in my loneliness, for if the city saw you then it was ok Where Did She Go the whiskey on your breath a warm malted remembrance as you took her hand and led her to the garden, a child's restlessness and knowing created the chatter, you need another cigarette as the whys come in verbal clouds, darkening with each sentence to explain mortality loss and pain, to a child with eager expectant eyes was hard, by the bushes that grow out into yellow flower, explaining that her mother had walked a different path and was in other hands.

Moth Circles night began to fall I sat patiently in the room and waited night stowed the day away lamps lit took a red pencil settled in my chair a moth appeared

flirtatious banging on the window muffled lovebeats to the light found open pane, entered weaving its nuptial dance about the room wherever it stopped I went and with the pencil drew circles about its presence each circle a ghost of movement a motion or desire past and as morning woke the moth departed with sadness turned off the lamp before going to bed took a last look at the scarlet moth circles and knew what they meant…..

Weavers Tale the weaver sat alone, glasses pinching his nose, brought from Tabriz, to create a rug, a farsh, one that Shah Jahan would admire, with his peacock , throne. a design of love with weft and weave . instructions clear 161 knots per inch in finest wool, purest dyes to create the tones. he began and worked with deft fidelity, as the face appeared the beauty apparent, the weaver fell in love, a female profile so beautiful he wept, locking himself in the room, unable to surrender, guards pounded the door, there was nothing more, cast them open and flung himself on the spears of the sparabara. Gallery apartment door slam that picture you never liked rocks on the wall, revealing slightly the hole it covers, from the armchair, not moving thoughts crossed his mind as whether he should put the picture in the trashcan but she would be back and would not forgive

The Occupants light a match to see the day, clouds have darkened us now pages from an idle press avoid the subject of our lives tender kiss an infants hand and look into its eyes, beyond the womb we are still occupants figuring out where we stand, they tell us in a filtered way we listen, then realize the answer will be no bread mops up gravy but is no good for pain TV shows give us reality but that is idle noise, we have seen as clouds stripped back the ugly beast created by greed and negligence, now raise your hands and raise your voice the light is upon us

Giving

she put her hand upon his chest, felt the movement something inside, beneath flesh wrapping and bone protection, a beating heart gift wrapped in his warmth love and security, it was for her, tattooed hallmark her name imprinted seared as a lasting impression, to her touch it revealed a long and future life, of happiness and everyday happenings, lost socks and incidental kisses, that was all she needed an aortic ruby, wrapped in the one gift she loved life

Trees and Nature Say

your breath six lungs away golden sunflower held close today, rain leaves spiritual mark close to tree i write on bark on crack smoked trains ice melted elongated veins from forest to urban swing park skin fragile age peels like bark would jesus see citizens the same as they shout shoot and maim, but with words i can hark back to moss strewn branches and bark bitter subsides and no deride from greasy window see outside there awaits a sweet lark and find salvation clutching bark

Somnambulist depth of darkness measured by fear rolled tight as a scroll in my gut, no reflective light guiding footfalls taken across carpeted halls, my mind once a languid harbor, now storm tossed each night a lesion to my conscious breath came in stuttering pauses from which condensation lifted, never reassured, for every night i walk the dream of the night before